Making Marks
by Kirui
Summary: In the region of Neorei, tides are changing. The seat of the ocean-king grows restless as the waves recede, carrying off with them the shield of the sea. Tidings of war come deftly as the land thirsts. Across the realm lies the kingdom of Crestgard, thrown into the tumult by an underhanded betrothal. Will the two kingdoms crumble when pressed by battle on all sides?
1. Prologue

He shuffled through the sand, feet bare and thoroughly wetted by the surf.

"Curse the bloody horse," Brayden muttered. "Would've brought an iron lead if I knew he'd bite through his rope one. Alidor is going to have my head for this."

Why do I have such rotten luck? I could've been sitting my arse down on the Sphinx right about now had that lackwit Lord Willem not sent me to squire for Lord Seaven's son. "'Collateral', he said of me. Mine own father, reducing me to no more than trade fodder! And for who? The dashing Prince of Seahaven?" The man spat into the waves lapping at his feet, trying to chase the vile taste of seawater from his mouth. Or perhaps he was trying to forget what happened to Alidor's last squire. Given to the sea for the crime of bedding a common wench. A simper crossed his lips, ever so faint. I wonder what Alyssa would do if she heard me call her a common wench. '"The Princess of Seahaven is no wench,' she'd say. Well, I piss on her 'princess'."

If there'd been anyone around to hear his treasonous talk, they remained well hidden in the sea of sharp rocks jutting from the ocean's corrugated surface. And as far as Brayden Willem knew, Magikarp had no ears to hear with, nor words to deceit him.

They were the only Pokemon that inhabited the waters around Seahaven, those thrice-damned Magikarp. Useless as anything other than food and stupid besides, they had only ended up emblazoned as sigils on the blue field of Seahaven's banner because of some war fought a century past in the days of King Axel.

Brayden's father had told him the tale of the righteous king a hundred times when he was a boy. The telling was for his own amusement, Brayden suspected; Lord Willem never failed to laugh when his son's face scrunched up at the gory bits, and when he had been in his cups, the man often had to stop mid-sentence to collect himself, which proved a challenge in and of itself. It really depended how drunk he was.

Many and more times the old Lord would craft an ending of his own surmise, shifting King Axel's name, gender, or appearance. The first time his father had done it, he'd described the lad as a boy with emerald eyes and ashen hair that fell to his shoulders. Brayden at that point knew he was lying, for if the Seavens were renowned for one thing, it was the trueness of their eye color. Even a boy as young as Brayden knew that every Seaven in Neore had blue eyes flecked with gold. The eyes of a Seaven were something of a treasure, Lord Willem said. He would also add, in arch banter, that he wished Brayden had been born a woman so one of the Seavens could fuck him and sire some blue-eyed children. Those jests are the reason I'm in no particular hurry to pray for my father's longevity.

But when Lord Willem managed to get through the whole of the tale without falling asleep or growing bored, he was quite a merry storyteller. From what of his retellings Brayden remembered, Axel Seaven was half a boy himself when he'd been named ruler of Seahaven. His father had been slain in the Battle of the Bay, which, in spite of its name, was a battle that took place a hundred leagues from any bay. A plan to storm Seahaven and end the Seaven bloodline had been laid out by the infamous Jakien Pyrox. To hear other stories told, the man was the half-mad spawn of a woman and a Pyroar, and he'd earned the name The Bastard of Pyroar for his flaming blade, Eruption. It was said he had no need of flint to set his blade to burning, for he used his own blood and the breath of fire his father had blessed him with. The lies singers spin for a copper, Braydenthought. It would be no surprise if I found Axel alive in some crag drinking Seaven Silver with Alidor's Ponyta.

But Brayden humored himself with the rest of the tale, false as it might have been. Axel was a boy blessed with tactical wisdom beyond his years, and in a deft move he advanced on Jakien's forces in the bleak of night and quenched half his army. Again, Brayden questioned how well a twelve-year old could sit a mount, let alone destroy half an army.

One man proved more of a challenge to Axel than an army, though. When Jakien found the king resting in his throne room, he was said to have sheared the boy's arm to the elbow in single combat. He would've slew Axel right then and there had a Magikarp the king rescued from the kitchens as a child not thrown itself at him and taken the blow intended for Axel with its own body.

Seeing his partner strewn across the floor drove Axel into a bloodlust. He skewered Jakien with blood pouring from his shoulder and raised Magikarp as the device that would be borne on every Seahaven banner henceforth.

And so it was that Brayden bore a fish at the top of his surcoat. Thing is, no bloody Magikarp saved Axel when that ship of his struck a rock and sank. His father had also told him the tale of King Axel's demise, though it wasn't so wrought with valor as the first story. "Sunk in his armor, that he did, swinging his sword with his good arm the whole way down," Lord Willem would always finish, clapping his son on the back as if it were the shell of a Squirtle. Brayden would've pitied the dead king had he not been so wroth towards the Seavens.

Particularly Alidor. Brayden was older than the Prince he squired for; nearing four-and-thirty, he was double the age of Prince Alidor Seahaven, and thrice that of his brother, Lucas. When my lord father finally decides to die, I'll be relieved from this folly. I'll be the Lord of Dseri, how will little Alidor like that? He would make a much better lord than squire, that much Brayden was certain of. Trim even in his middle age, he wasn't hard on the eyes. Ashy black hair fell to his shoulders in loose waves, and his eyes shone darkly in the sandy brown color distinct to the Willim family. He'd have no trouble finding a lady to marry; perhaps she'd give him a strong-blooded heir one day. I'll name him Alpyn, just to vex the fair Princess. That had been his predecessor's name, if his memory served him true.

It would not be so simple finding Alidor's Ponyta, however. "I just took the beast for a drink down by the shore. I mean, who am I to question Seahaven traditions? Feed the stallions oats stewed in seawater, scrub them with sea salt every eve. Hell, let the bastards drink the sea in and piss it out." Brayden kicked at a shell and watched it go skittering out across the sand. He frowned when it disappeared into the dark opening of a cave cut from the cliffs about the shoreline. He heard it land in some water with a soft sploosh, and then, ever so faintly, a whicker came from within the gloomy crag. I may keep my head on my shoulders yet, Brayden thought. Or perhaps I won't need to learn to swim just now.

Being given to the sea was considered both a punishment and an honor, depending who you asked, and was the preferred method of execution in the seafaring cities of Neore. The Shoreline Empire was no different. A triad of keeps, each at their own point off Raven's Gulf, were what awaited a traveler coming into the Empire from open waters. Brayden What. Oceaven, Seahaven, and Wavestir were notorious for tossing men into the churning ocean during a storm, though each claimed to do so for a different reason.

In Wavestyr, the god of the sea demanded sacrifices; in Oceaven it was believed the maiden Alevena required sacrifices to rise anew from the watery depths. Even though her ship sank more than a hundred years prior, Lord Symire Oceaven seemed to think his great-aunt would make a grand return someday if he offered prisoners of war to the sea every fortnight. Brayden had his suppositions about the truth in that. And in Seahaven, the logic behind drowning men was simple: The bastard commits a crime, he pays for it with his life. ', the common folk jested in their cups.

Another sound came from within the cave, growing louder with each step Brayden took. A salty wind whipped his woolen doublet about, and the sand underfoot grew coarse. Soon the squire found himself wishing he'd brought boots. Rocks punctuated the sand within the cave, as well as bits of seaglass and coral, and it was nigh impossible to take a step without cutting yourself.

Still, Brayden pressed forward, keeping a hand on the wall that had sprung up beside him as he entered the cave. It was limestone, so far as he could tell, splotched with lichen and smelling strongly of salt. Everything in Seahaven smelled of salt; the food; the sea; the ale; even the privy shafts smelled of salt.

The only respite was down by the stables, where the only scent in the air was that of shit. It was a welcome change, though, and Brayden oft wandered to the stall where he knew Navi waited.

A small Ponyta, she had been the runt of her litter and was never given more than a backwards glance and a handful of oats by the stablehands, yet Brayden loved her all the same. He would take apples that had been knocked loose of their branches to her whenever he could find any in the orchard, and laugh when she snorted steam at him as she chewed them thoughtfully.

More than once, he'd thought of hopping on her back and riding away, back to Dseri and his father. There'd be no more scrubbing barnacles from the Prince's boots, he thought, and once my lord father passes, I'll be the rightful Lord of Dseri. But then Alidor had gone and foiled his plans by giving Navi to his younger brother Lucas to play with.

The wall had grown dry beneath his fingers. Brayden studied it for a moment, wondering if he'd be able to find his way back to Seahaven with it alone. Behind him, light no longer poured from the mouth of the cave, and darkness sprawled before him like an unfurled map.

Another sound broke the silence, though it sounded more a screech than a whicker. Taking his hand from the wall, Brayden stumbled over rocky sand towards the cry. He only paused and looked back at it once. What if I die in here, searching for the way back?

"Back where? Mine own drowning rite?" Brayden asked of the darkness, getting no reply but the echo if his own words. He was upset with himself for thinking he'd lose his way if he lost sight of the wall, upset with Alidor for taking Navi from him, and most of all upset with his father for sending him to Seahaven when he had been so close to claiming his birthright.

When at last he found the cavern, his feet were sore and his temper was hot. He nearly fell into the wash of light filtering through a hole in the domed ceiling. I'm like a Venomoth, he reflected, falling to his knees. So starved for light I fling myself into it's embrace with no regard for anything else. Now I know how the blind must feel.

He looked around for anything that might give him a clue about where the sounds had come from. Rocks jutted up from the sandy ground like gloved fists, and he could hear the faint crash of waves somewhere to his right. The salt wind had tapered off, but the scent still hung in the air wetly. The drip-drip-drip of water off some stalagmites echoed in the distance.

And then the cry came from behind one of the rocks, urgent as it was shrill. Brayden got up slowly, letting the sand funnel off his doublet and form piles on the ground. "Ponyta?" he called, edging closer to the rock. If it's you, I can leave this bloody cave. If what was behind the rock wasn't Ponyta, though...

His hands were on it now. He could hear breathing, both his own and that of someone else. Peering over the edge, he saw Ponyta's mane, the fire warm on his cheeks. A shudder of relief went through him...

...Until he saw what the horse was prodding with its muzzle. Brayden could tell it was a Pokemon at first glance. One of it's eyes was swollen shut, the lid black and oozing pus in places. The the rounded, triangle-shaped appendage around it had a bit of a purplish tint to it, and it's feathery skin was white as bone. Cold as it, too, the squire thought when he touched a gash on the creature's wing, yet he could fell it's chest rise and fall with each breath it took.

Ponyta gave a good-natured whicker and nudged the creature again. Take it back to Alidor, he seemed to say. Brayden hesitated. His hand still rested on the Pokemon's wing, scaly and soft and feathery all at the same time. The squire drew his hand back to find his fingertips bloody He judged he could carry the beast back to Seahaven on his lap if Ponyta would bear the weight. The horse's mane would provide ample light, even in the dark of the cave and spare him another stumble through the blackness.

And so it was that Brayden Willim, heir to the city of Dseri and it's surrounding lands, as well as squire to the Prince of Seahaven, found himself astride Ponyta and heading in the direction of home.

 _It's not truly home,_ he thought, the strange Pokemon's heart thumping against his chest, _but I feel closer to the sea than I have in a long while._

For once, the salty scent rolling off the waves didn't bother him.


	2. Lunette I

Sitting at her mother's right hand, Lunette Ecklish felt the part of a lady. She was dressed in a fine silk frock, laced tight in the bodice with a skirt that flared out to her knee; the ornate feel of it lent her a sense of royalty. Discomfort is temporary, she told herself. First impressions are not.

Below her, a small crowd of common folk had gathered to air their grievances to the Lady of Crestgard. Farmers clutching rusted pitchforks stared up at her mother with noddy eyes and dull expressions, their families huddled behind them. The three knights of the City Guard pressed in close around the wives and children.

Lunette didn't know them by name, but she'd occasionally see one of them standing sentry by her mother's solar or making their rounds of the palace gardens. As she glimpsed the tallest one, a sandy-haired knight with queer indigo eyes, Lunette's heart gave a flutter. He's so poised, she thought, christening him Equa. And as though he'd heard her thoughts, the knight turned to look toward her and inclined his head when he found the Princess of Crestgard staring. Lunette glanced away, chagrined by his easy grace.

When at last she stole a look back up at the City Guard, Equa had returned his gaze to the standard of Crestgard hanging behind Alysandre, flaming red on onyx. Lunette chanced a look at the knights flanking Equa.

They weren't nearly as pleasing to look on; both were thrice his age and wore furtive scowls that made them appear much older. Their hair didn't have the same luster as Equa's either, being a muddy brown pocked with grey. Lunette could not bring herself to trust them, even though she was certain they were skilled knights. Her mother had selected them with her own hand, after all.

Finally, her mother spoke. "I will hear ten today." She waved a gloved hand, and Equa drew a spindly stableman to the dais before Lunette and Alysandre. He bowed a low bow. "You have my leave to speak. Thank you, Pyre."

Lunette's Charmander shifted under her seat. The tip of his tail brushed her leg. It was something he did often, and Lunette had grown accustomed to the heat of the fire.

We won't burn. House Ecklish's words had never felt more real to her than when she had been able to stroke the mane of her Rapisdash and draw her hand away unharmed. It had been the same with Charmander's good-natured touches. Lunette reached down and scratched his head.

The farmer spoke of his need for a new plowhorse, imploring Alysandre to grant him a Ponyta from the royal stables. Even after offering to trade one of his daughters for the beast, he was denied with a soft word.

Lunette listened carefully to her mother's verdict, short as it was, and watched as the farmer was led from the hall by one of the City Guard. His wife and daughters trailed behind him. The younger of the two looked back at Lunette as the door was closing behind them, and she realized the girl had known of her father's plan to barter her away for a Pokemon. She looked almost sad that it hadn't happened.

Lunette looked away. She would be Lady of Crestgard someday, and though that was many moons off, her mother had thought it best she be taught the way of ruling early. Sometimes the way is harsh.

The girl's sad stare remained in her mind for the rest of the audience. More farmers were brought forth, most bearing requests for land, Pokemon, or gold. All but one were turned away, and Lunette suspected her mother only granted the poor man a tract of land to show her that generosity was a trait every ruler should have.

The rest of the morning melted away into turned backs and dead eyes. Lunette let her mind wander to better days, days filled with laughter and lush green fields. The one she thought back to now was the day Charmander's egg hatched, the day she had found the friend that would remain by her side as long as she lived. Memories of that summer came to Lunette in wisps of sunlight and brushes of mirth. She was a child then, drunk on innocence and falling into ditches easily as she fell into ploys.

Even when the images in her head were fuzzy, feelings remained to her. Those were the only solaces Lunette demanded, those gay moments so profligately spent. She gave Charmander a scratch on the head, thankful he still remained to her.

Shortly after, Alysandre called a break for lunch. Those that remained were herded from the hall by the members of the City Guard. This time, none of them looked back at Lunette. I wish I could give them all Ponyta, the girl thought. A dozen extra wouldn't cost so much. I could pay for them with my own savings.

"So," Lunette's mother asked her as the food was being brought out, "how are you enjoying the audience? Is it to your favor?"

Lunette nodded, resting her head upon a cupped hand. She was tired, and wanted more than anything to go outside and play with Charmander, but it wouldn't do to leave the attendance before it was through. "It's wonderful, Mother."

"I am glad to hear you say so." Alysandre's Charizard snorted from behind her chair. Every so often she cast a glance at the serving women approaching Alysandre and Lunette, wary of the covered trays they held. She kept a careful distance until they had set them down on the table and removed their covers.

Lunette had never seen the beast eat. Nor did she hope to. It was a wonder something as small as her Charmander would one day grow to be as big as her mother's Charizard. I hope Char stays as kind as he is now when he evolves." Mother," she said when the covers were taken up to reveal plates of grilled Shellder, "I won't be the Lady of Crestgard for many years, so why is it that I must attend court sessions with you?" Are you going away on some business affair? That wouldn't explain why she'd been brought to court, though; Alysandre had been away time and time again to attend feasts in neighboring kingdoms that would solidify alliances between them and Crestgard, yet Lunette had never been required to sit with her mother as she passed judgement.

Alysandre Ecklish smiled. "You are fourteen now, almost a woman grown. I thought it best to show you the ways of the Crest before I grow too old."

"Oh." Lunette stared down at the Shellder. "I'm learning quite a bit, but why can't you give the farmers the Ponyta they want?"

"A child wouldn't understand."

"You just said I was almost a woman grown."

The smile seemed sad now. "Almost. When your Charmander evolves, perhaps we will speak of this again. For now, let me be the Lady of Crestgard." She reached over and gave Lunette a soft touch on the shoulder. "You'll have plenty of time to rule when I'm gone."

When she's gone. The prospect frightened Lunette. Her mother was the only person in Crestgard she knew, truly knew. She trusted her more than the knights of the City Guard, more than the rosy-cheeked maid who brought her linens at night, more than the cook who had prepared the Shellder she was to eat. No one could ever replace her. But she speaks truly. One day she won't be here. Lunettepicked up a fork and poked at the Shellder to put her thoughts at ease. Its shell had been removed, leaving only a slick pile of meat on the plate, but Lunette swore she saw it quiver every so often with a heartbeat that was no longer there. She offered up a resigned sigh before settting it on the floor next to Char. She'd had food enough when she broke her fast, and the evening's meal would come when her mother decided to break audience. Besides, her frock was too tight to allow for comfortable sitting, let alone comfortable eating. Watching Char eat is enough for me, she told herself, although her stomach chided her for it.

Her mother had taken her hand from Lunette's shoulder. "I never did like Shellder, either," she said, taking up her portion and tossing it to Charizard with a gloved hand. The dragon flicked her gaze to it and spit out a plume of fire to char the meat midair before it found its way into her great gullet. "Have some bread, dear. You may find it more to your liking. See, here comes some now." She waved the nearest serving man over from across the hall.

Lunette did enjoy bread. The loaves made from Crestgard's own wheat were her favorite, and there were quite a few types of those. The tightness about her waist still bit at Lunette with lace teeth, but a passing platter of pastries proved stronger than her desire to appeal to a bit of cloth. When she had one in her hands, she found it warm, and was delighted to see it give slightly when she poked it. There must be jam inside.

The puffy baker who had been Head Chef at Crestgard since before Lunette's birth didn't even notice it was missing until he set the tray down before Alysandre. Her mother concealed a giggle with her hand when the baker bowed low, and Lunette couldn't help but join her. She's so pretty when she smiles. Small wonder Father loved her so.

She had only been a child when the news of Lord Ecklish's death had come, but the grief on her mother's face as she read the letter oft played in Lunette's mind. Alysandre had never told her the manner in which Lord Morgan had perished. It was for the best, she had said, but Lunette could not see how sparing her the details of a death would make it any less bitter. Especially now that I'm a young lady. She gave Charmander another scratch, feeling the grooves in his scaled skin.

The last man was brought in as Alysandre and Lunette's plates were being cleared away. A cloak of undyed wool fell to his knees underneath a long grey jerkin, and a lank brown beard fell a quarter so far. He carried a pitchfork, like the rest of them, though it gleamed with metallic sheen. It's been polished, Lunette realized. Why would someone polish a pitchfork? She thought to call for a guard so he might speak unarmed.

"My lady," said the man, bowing low. His rumbling voice reminded Lunette of the horse-drawn carriage she had ridden into town with her mother once, before she decided she didn't trust the thing. "I am a farmer. The smallfolk know me simply as Fletcher. Strange that a farmer would come about the name Fletcher, no?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Nevertheless, a farmer called Fletcher stands here, and he asks a boon of you."

"What would you have me give you? I have no Ponyta, nor any gold to spare," Alysandre said. She gave Lunette a glance. Her Charizard snorted.

"No Ponyta?" The man feigned surprise. "Then I suppose that leaves me to request a Rapidash and a skin of red for my trouble."

"Do not jest with me, farmer."

"My name is Fletcher."

"I know what your name is," Alysandre said wearily. "If you will not request something within my right to give, I will have my men escort you out."

Fletcher shrugged. "Once again, I will ask for a Rapidash and a skin of red." He noticed Alysandre reddening and dipped into the slightest bow. "I am a man of little thirst, perhaps the Rapidash alone will do. See now, is that not plausible?"

"Our steeds are geldings, you'll be sorrowed to find," the Lady of Crestgard said. With her brow furrowed and lip parted, Alysandre Ecklish looked quite like a dragon. A queer auburn-headed dragon, certainly, but a queer dragon could rip a man's head from his shoulders as aptly as any other.

"All of them?" Archer thrust his pitchfork in the direction of the nearest guard. "Are all your men eunuchs, then? And all your women barren?"

Lunette made to speak, but found her words chalky and small in her throat. What could have been a valiant cry of objection came out as no more than a whine, all its strength exhausted on the wall of her lips. Alysandre made no note of her daughter's attempted ruling, instead waving an impassive hand at the assembly. "Plyon, if you would. I've had quite enough of this folly."

The hardest of the City Guard detached himself from the throng of men, women, and children to make his way calmly towards Fletcher. Aside from being Captain of the Guard, Pylon Pyke was Master of Arms at Crestgard. He shone in an ivory-scaled breastplate and ringed leggings, and was already drawing the sword at his hip. "Count yourself lucky Lady Alysandre is letting you keep your head." He made a grab for Fletcher's arm, but the farmer ducked away.

"I'll be glad to get away with my cock, if my suppositions have some truth to them," Archer said, thrusting his pitchfork at the nearest piece of armor. The metal found its way into the point at the juncture of Pylon's arm and shoulder, a glancing blow.

"Bloody bastard," grunted Pylon, taking a swing with his own blade. Fletcher parried, swept Pyke's longsword to the side with the shaft of his own weapon, and landed a boot just above his scaled fauld. As Pylon stumbled back, Fletcher swung his pitchfork around to bring him heavily to his knees. A moment was all he needed to break away. The other guards had roused themselves enough to move by that time, but it seemed their efforts were good for naught.

Lunette stood. "Go," said her mother, strangely calm, "go to Cresten. You'll be safe in the armory."

"Won't you come too?" Lunette grabbed at her mother's arm. The sounds of plates shattering filled her ears, and she saw a serving man fling his tray at Fletcher desperately. It might have been a feather for all it did to stop the farmer from vaulting onto the table before Lunette, pitchfork raised high.

Alysandre smiled and stroked Lunette's hand. "Go," she said a final time, her hazel eyes betraying the slightest wetness. She's scared, Lunette realized.

Four prongs exploded through her chest. Lunette screamed. She was shoved onto her back by a suddenly bloody hand, just before Charizard reached Fletcher. The great beast lifted a claw and raked him. The sound of a pained wail rose above the other sounds in the hall. It cut short, and Lunette thought the thing was done. She blinked, and the pitchfork was going through Charizard's throat. Char. She blinked again. Where is he?

When she opened her eyes, Fletcher knelt over Lady Alysandre, his pitchfork gleaming with her blood. "You speak of folly," he growled, clutching at his chest where Charizard had struck him. "And yet you can't spare a horse for the working men of your kingdom. That is the true folly." He spat.

Alysandre stirred, the slightest movement, and Lunette saw the four grievous red holes in her chest. "You've done what you've done. Finish it if you will, but know it will bring your men no steeds."

"They're no true steeds." Lunette grew faint when he brought the pitchfork down. She could hardly breathe for the tightness in her chest, and the pounding of her heart rising above the screaming and sobbing. What do they have to cry about? A drop of blood rolled down her cheek like a soft red tear. Pylon staggered over and scooped her up in his strong arms before she hit the floor. "My Lady of Crestgard," he said, eyes barren behind his thick brown beard.

Lunette took a lingering look back, the carnage bobbing up and down as Ser Pyke ran towards a high arched door. Charizard, already a bloody orange mess, stumbled forward with a mighty roar and struck Fletcher's head off his shoulders. Both of them hit the floor in a growing pool of red. Whose blood it was she could not determine.

As the doors closed, Lunette finally understood why Alysandre Ecklish had kept silent about her husband's death so dutifully. Grief is a beast at best, and beasts do not take kindly to cages. She tucked her beast away to spare me his teeth. The initial bite had broken both mother and daughter's skin, something impossible to avert, but each detail Alysandre withheld kept her daughter's deeper flesh unmolested.

Lunette let out a rippling sob, pounding Pylon's breastplate with the flat of her hand.

note: I am editing this story, so cutoffs and abrupt paragraph changes are normal.


	3. Z I

He crept towards the cart, dirk in hand. Hopefully this will turn up some decent fare. I've not had salt pork since the Princess's coronation. A hard sea breeze whipped at his skin, shrieking like the Wingulls wheeling overhead.

The object of Z's desire was a cart loaded with twine-tied bunches of dried haddock from the seas of Lyemont. A tawny-skinned merchant was calling their prices to passerby in a thick Lyen accent, his eyes more on the copperbags hanging at their belts than on his wares.

The big greedy fool, thought Z, creeping closer. He won't miss a fish or two. Swift as a Sneasel, the boy reached out and swiped a bunch from the cart. The twine felt rough against the palm of his skin, the fish slimy.

As he was turning to retreat into the bustling marketplace, a hand caught his wrist. "Where do you think you're going, little weasel?"

Z sucked in a breath. Damn the man, he thought. How did I not see him? His clutch on the haddock tightened.

"Mute, are you?" The merchant sniffed. "Makes no matter. Mutes scream like the rest when they get their fingers lopped off." He chuckled, a deep throaty sound that made his chins wobble. "Give that fish here, and might be I'll only have you whipped instead."

Only? Z glared at his captor, sizing up the man. He stood at least two meters tall, and half again as wide. A wiry black beard covered the lower half of his face. Z judged a well-placed hit with the butt of his blade could knock the oaf to his knees. He clenched his dirk...

...And then he was the one being knocked to his knees. "Oof," he grunted, his hands flying out before him to embrace the dusty wood dock. The bundle of fish went skittering out across the floor in one direction, his dirk the other.

"Good girl," the Lyen man purred from behind him. Z looked up and saw an Umbreon stalking towards him. The Pokemon's fur was groomed to shining, with a thin yellow choker about its throat. Z heard the merchant shuffle over, and he was pulled abruptly to his feet. All the fight left him when he saw two more Lyenes, each bearing jeweled longaxes.

"What should we do with the whelp?" one asked. She was a woman, from the sound of her, but helmed Z mistook her for a man. A slit near the top of her helmet showed queer violet eyes flecked with red.

"Take 'im to Mo'q," the other suggested.

"He ain't done nothing but steal a bunch of fish." The merchant's tone was stern. "Besides, he's a mute. Mo'q wouldn't have use for him. I think we ought to give the lad a few lashes and send him on his way a man wiser." The woman Lyen's expression hardened through her eyeslit, but she mumbled an agreement.

Z's hand was throbbing where it had smacked against the ground. He felt sticky juice dribbling down his chest, and knew his apples had been crushed.

The liquid soon showed clear and dark on his leggings. "Look at the boy!" the woman Lyen cawed. She had drawn an iron-handled whip from her belt, but lowered it as she pointed. "So scared he pissed himself!"

The man beside her chortled. Z wanted to slap the stupid grin off his face. He had half a mind to wrench free of the first merchant and call the Pokemon he'd seen in his dreams, but he knew dreams weren't real. I should have been content with my apples. Now I have naught. He closed his eyes and tried to picture it again. If there's any chance it exists...

But if it did, it didn't deign to make an appearance. "Get him down, Xhok. Ylle, I'm trusting you to deliver the punishment. Thirty strikes to his bare back." The second merchant pushed Z to the ground, and the woman, Ylle, took a stance over him. "Umbreon and I are getting the fish. His dirk as well. Good steel, I'd wager."

Z fought and kicked and screamed at Ylle as she bent over and pulled his jerkin up over his head. A cool sea breeze caught his bare skin, sending a chill up his spine. Buyers and sellers up and down the marketplace turned to ogle at the scene. Ylle tossed Z's threadbare jerkin back at them over her shoulder, and a small melee for the shirt ensued. Z could tell by the uproar a moment later that his jerkin had been won by some merchant, or perhaps a fisherman. Mushed apple bits that had stuck fast to his chest fell to splatter on the ground, earning another chortle from Xhok. I'll kill you. I swear I will. He squirmed on the ground until Ylle's boot pressed down onto the back of his neck, whereupon he stilled.

Satisfied, Ylle unfurled her whip with a flick of her wrist. After a period of dreadful anticipation, the first lash came down with a thunderous snap. Z bit his tongue, swallowing the curses that budded on it. A searing pain swirled through him, short and sharp. It receded to a dull throb in the small of his back, until the second lash came. This time he fought to stay silent. His screams went to the Pokemon in his head. Why aren't you here? Another lash came and went. I need you. And yet another. Z screamed when the whip cut into a gash it had just delivered. Please. The crowd that had gathered around them sucked in a collective breath each time Ylle raised her whip, and released it in a warm squall when it cracked against Z's back. But in time it grew softer, and through blinding pain Z knew people had lost interest in the spectacle of a boy being whipped by the docks. And in the same way, the novelty of his dream Pokémon appearing to save him had dribbled away to nothing.

A red cloak ended up being his savior. "Salutations," the knight said, reigning his Rapidash to a halt. "Might I ask why you've taken to beating this young lad?"

Z released a low whimper. His back was afire, all needlepoints and glass shards, but he was glad for the disruption. Ylle didn't share his joy. "Ser, he stole from us," she said. Her whip was poised in the air like a Scorpriu's stinger; he knew she was itching for another chance to strike him. "We are not beating so much as we are teaching."

"If you would be so kind as to leave us to our lessons," added Xhok, hefting his axe. The jeweled shaft gleamed like a shaft of sunlight.

Z saw suspicion play across the knight's face. "He stole? How did fish-mongers like yourselves come across those lovely axes, then? They look to be of a royal standard; those are Chesmerian emeralds they're encrusted with, are they not?"

"Ain't nobody's business but ours how we got our weapons," Xhok spat. "Leave us to our lessons." He gestured to the nearby docks, where other fishermen had hung their catch and left them to flounder about.

"That's no way to talk to a knight, fisher," said the red cloak, frowning. "I'll leave you be once the boy's in my custody. Might be I won't tell the Princess about your axes."

Xhok's face puffed up, for a moment blazing red as a Sunstone. Ylle put a hand on his shoulder. "Take the whelp. He's had his fill of lessons for the day." She chuckled, snapping her whip. A spatter of Z's blood hit the dock. Just seeing it made him wince. And silently, Ylle slipped the whip into the sleeve of her jerkin.

Xhok seized Z by the ear and pulled him to his feet. "Got a few gashes, nothing a good bit of boiling wine won't fix." He pushed Z to the mounted soldier. Then he turned from Ylle and strode off in the direction the first merchant had, muttering something about the value of steel.

Ylle remained for a heartbeat to give the knight a lingering look. Z couldn't decipher the meaning of it, so he shied away from her purple gaze. When he looked up, she too was gone, leaving Z barechested with a man he'd never seen before.

The knight reached down with a brown-skinned hand. "Gods be good, what possessed you to steal?"

Z took it shakily, unaware of how lightheaded he felt. "I was hungry."

"I'll fix that, then," the red cloak said. "I'm taking you to our maester of potions. You took a few nasty bites from the whip, four on your back and one on your cheek."

My cheek? The boy's hand went to it. Sure enough, there was a nick there, though it wasn't throbbing like his back. It hurt him just to think of that.

He learned of the knight's name as they trod through the streets of Luma Bay astride the same Rapidash, and that he was second in line to be lord of the Chesamere Isles. "I don't think my lordly brother will pass anytime soon, so for now I am just Ser Rondy," he said, a smile softening the lines on his face. "You may call me Ron."

"I'm Z," said Z. He ran his fingers through his nest of dirt brown hair. The motion took his mind off the swaying of the Rapidash as it moved, as well as the fire lancing through his back. "Chesamere... is that how you guessed what those gems on the Lyens' axes were?"

Ron nodded. "Aye. I was born to an armorer by the name of Yoxo Chester. He smithed swords for the Ocean's King, Axel Seaven, when I was just a lad."

"The Ocean's King?" Z had learned of King Flotzen, King Marsh, and King Standor during sleepless nights spent at the Great Sept by Luma Bay, but he'd never heard of an Ocean's King.

"A great leader," said Ron. He pressed a soft boot to Rapidash's side to spur the Pokemon to a canter. "Though I suppose you don't learn much of royal lineage when you're not royal." Z saw him hunch forward, as though trying to distance himself from something unpleasant. Z had no choice but to lean forward with him. He could scarcely imagine the pain of falling from a Rapidash, much less on a back riddled by open cuts. Ser Rondy didn't seem to mind Z grabbing at his armor to keep balanced,though, and continued without missing a beat. "The Ocean's King was the first of the Seaven bloodline. Seahaven, the mont kingdom by the sea, that's where they rule. Have you heard of Seahaven, Z?"

"No," replied Z, honestly. The farthest he'd been from Luma Bay was Crestgard, the day of the Princess's coronation ceremony, and that was just up Pymont Hill, a mile from the Bay. Even then, he'd only went for the promise of a hot meal and warm bed.

And he'd gotten just that: a piping bowl of bran stew garnished with odd spices and the occasional bit of salt pork, and a bale of straw to lay his head upon. It was more than the Great Sept by the Bay had gave him each Sunday for being an orphan, though, and for that he was grateful. The sores he'd earned trekking to Crestgard were less than pleasant, though. Z thought of inquiring about the coronation day to Ron. Perhaps he's met the Princess. He shook his head. Ser Ronly's only a red cloak, he corrected himself, how could he have met the Princess?

"It's a grand kingdom. The eastern shores of Neorei, that's where it is. Might be I'll take you there someday," Ron continued, bringing Z from his reverie. "For now, though, we're headed to Crestgard."

The pain in his back blustered back like a swirling tsunami. Z was in desperate need of something to take his mind off of it, and Ser Rondy seemed to enjoy recounting the wonders of Neore, so Z asked him, "Why did the Ocean's King grant your father a lordship?

Ron leaned back, and Z with him. "He did what he loved to do. He made a sword." Ser Rondy took a breath of salty air and continued, "When the Great War broke loose in the South, my father made a blade so great he was found dead the morn after he folded the metal over itself a thousandth time and declared the sword done." He shook his head. "The maesters all said it was an infection that did him in, but I know he wouldn't like to think he died of a wound that festered.

"'Ron,' he said to me the eve before he passed, 'you present that sword to the king, you lay it at his feet, and you tell him Chester hands made that blade.' And I did, that very night. I showed Axel each emerald that had been inlaid into the iron, the starry sapphire shards pressed into its pommel. And he was so pleased with my father's work that he granted him a lordship over the Chesamere Isles. Yoko Chester was a true lord, if only for an eve." Ser Rondy brushed his black hair back. He seemed almost sad.

Later, in the maester's quarters, Z was given a chalky potion of Citrus grounds and Leppa root. He coughed it down as graciously as he could. In time he found his pain eased. "Thank you," he told the maester who administered the medicine, an old man who was never far from a smile. He was smiling now.

"You're quite welcome, my boy," he said. "It's fortunate Rondy found you when he did. I'm afraid I wouldn't have been able to do much for the pain if the whip had cut any deeper." He put a wrinkled hand on Z's chin, turning it towards him. "What's this about one on your cheek?" Z put his finger to it. The maester tutted and hummed over the mark, tracing it with a shaky finger. "Tis' no lash mark. Simply a scar. But strangely shaped, that I will say."

The maester must have noticed the gooseprickles raised on Z's back, for he took a cloak hanging by one of his bookshelves and draped it about the boy's shoulders. The lambswool felt soft and sleek against his skin. It warmed him tothink of the benevolence he'd been shown, by both Ron and the old maester. I did naught to deserve this kindness.

"Now, boy, you go to Ser Rondy and tell him he's to escort you to the towerhouse by the kitchens. I'll not stand a young lad like yourself - say, how old are you?"

"Three-and-ten," replied Z.

"Ah. Well I shan't have you running about the city like some sewer rat, that much I can say. I'll find some sort of work for you in the kitchens."

Z didn't know what to say. Work? Just this morning I was stealing apples, how can it be that I'm being offered work? But when the maester's smile grew, he knew a job wasn't all he was being offered. The old man was giving him a second chance at life, a chance his dream Pokemon hadn't given him.

 _And I'll take it_ , thought Z, running out the door to where he knew Ron was waiting.


	4. Alidor I

If his brother was one thing, it was predictable.

Alidor found him where he thought he would, poring over parchments like an old maester in the castle's library. He sat awkwardly in an armchair made for a man thrice his size, sitting upright so as not to lean off to one end. Whenever he slumped, it seemed, an unseen hand pulled him back up. A mug, half-full of mulled cider, sat on the floor by his crossed feet.

Alidor approached him, one hand tracing the wooden frame of a bookshelf. His brother looked em style="box-sizing: border-box;"tired/em, his sandy hair tousled and lackluster, his eyes rimmed with red. When he blinked, as he did when he pushed the parchment through dry fingers to come to a new line, he opened them deliberately, as if coming out of a reverie.

He seemed to take no particular notice of the books piled about his throne, nor his brother's tall frame propped against the shelf. em style="box-sizing: border-box;"I'll wait a minute more/em, Alidor decided, looking up and down the ponderous stacks with growing enmity. _If he doesn't acknowledge me, I'll turn back and leave the way I came._

That minute passed punctuated only by the soft crinkling of paper as Lucas fumbled at it. "I thought to find you here," Alidor ventured, straightening. Though his patience had long since left him, and the dust hanging in the air was growing more vexing with each breath he drew, the thought of being cowed by no more than a boy's silence angered Alidor. So he pressed on despite his resolution, hoping to elicit a response: "You missed the morning's archery drills."

"I'm aware," Lucas said, turning a page. He didn't have the grace to look up at Alidor. "I was reading."

"You read too much."

"And you don't read enough." Lucas blinked. His eyes stayed firmly lidded, giving Alidor the vague apprehension he had fallen asleep in his chair. But after a moment he spoke, in the slow drawl of a peasant, "It would do you well to take up a tome or three."

"What would you have me read?" Alidor fingered the spine of a book lying skewed on his bookshelf, his nail piercing its cracked leather easily as a tooth pierced flesh. It was a thick forest of pages, sturdy as any armor, if not worn about the edges. "Perhaps I could use the books he suggests to craft a shield. Read, I'd call it.

"You could start with the one right there-" Lucas pointed somewhere behind Alidor, his head still lowered-" it's called em style="box-sizing: border-box;"The Lords and Ladies of Seahaven, Past to Present. "I'm sure you would find it enlightening, and if anything it will serve as a reminder of duty."

A flush crept up Alidor's neck, warm and red as wine. He presumes to speak to me of this. It seemed an eternity since he'd claimed lordship over Seahaven, but Alidor had yet to find a wife, sire an heir, and restore his kingdom the posture it once held. His title was more nominal than anything, and Lucas knew it. I don't see him jumping to offer assistance, apt to plain as he is.

It was said a lord must have buttocks harder than their seat if they wished to rule prosperously, and Lucas all but lived in his chair. Or so Alidor assumed, from the long hours he spent in it. He would make a decent lord. But he had been born two years after Alidor, a twist of the knife the Guardian probably still chuckled at. _When you play the game of kobatu, the pieces never quite go where you want them to,_ he mused. He liked to think himself the player, but the longer he stood staring at his brother, the more apprehension bit at him.

As matters stood, Alidor did not have the cheeks of iron his seat required. He had not sat the thing since news came of his father's death. _I was made for the battlefield_ , he thought, rolling his shoulders to let the tension from them. _I should be serving Seahaven atop a horse, not atop an old gnarled chair._

Most diminutive tasks Alidor left to his councilmen, matters of Wingull and the like. _I'll have to ensure they haven't sent any letters without my leave recently,_ he thought. _Uncertain are the times when a man cannot be trusted to select his own wife._ But when had the Seavens ever been able to marry for love?

Seahaven was part of a desirable empire, in a bay well-sheltered from attacks by sea and land both; it was far enough from the ocean to keep itself above water should a storm hit, but not so far as to limit trade; and championing them all, the Lord of Seahaven was a young, impressionable lad unversed in the ways of ruling a city. It would be more than simple for a woman thirty years his senior to find a way to dispose of him. Such women were always first to respond to news of a lord's death, and likely before the corpse began to rot. Lady Dyanne of Westwind had put her hand forward the moon before last, and Lady Angelica of the Scaled Mont had done similar. The two had been sisters, once, sharing the surname Reign before marrying into families with castles a thousand leagues apart. They wrote each other, in the beginning, but the Hoothoot of their House were ineffective couriers at best. Afterwards they contented themselves with striving to outlive their lord husbands. Both succeeded, and since then it had been a competition to see which of the two could claim more land for themselves. The tale of their rivalry had become notorious in brothels and bars alike, though it was rumored the two planned to join their kingdoms when they grew old. _They've grown old, aye, but the kingdoms remain asunder,_ Alidor reflected.

His other suitors were petty ladies of pettier claim and not worth acknowledging. _I'm left my pick of two old, fat widows._ He had plead a month to review the letters he'd been sent, on account of his father's death, and been granted two weeks. His suitors held formidable kingdoms, and that could only be overlooked for so long. em style="box-sizing: border-box;"I am too fresh an orphan to be seeking marriage, /emhe told himself, as he had told his council. I should be mourning. Lucas too. He took his hand, suddenly moist, from the book, and pulled the seasilk scarf about his throat up to cover his lips. If he could hide his shame from his brother, he could hide it from anyone.

"You are next in line to rule Seahaven," he said after a pause, "don't you think it's time you set down the scrolls and bend a bow?

"Now Lucas glanced up. His cobalt eyes cut through Alidor. "Scrolls are undervalued in the world of war, brother. See, this particular one is titled The Innermost Workings of the Battlefield, Volume I. I suggest you give it a read. It covers the various armor styles of Neorian smiths, as well as an odd few archery techniques." He rolled the parchment and set it down beside his ale. "I am attending your drills in my own way. Besides, Ripple here can kill men faster than I nock arrows. He doesn't miss, either."

As if he knew Lucas was speaking of him, the Croconaw stretched out beside a towering pile of books looked up. Alidor had his doubts about the claim, but said nothing. He knew as well as Lucas that the Pokemon had no teeth. _The lie is sweet enough now, but it will do naught to glance a blade from your flesh._

Other boys of an age with Lucas had wielded swords of wood and shale and iron in turn, and moved their sparring from courtyard to battlefield, but the Prince had refused to do any of it with them. His brother was sixteen, a man grown, yet he hadn't taken on the responsibilities that came with manhood.

Not that Alidor had taken the proper measures to drive his brother from the library and to the yard. He'd been contending with demons of his own, the most combatant of them the weight of a crown he'd never wanted. He'd meant to put a sword in Lucas's hand, as he'd meant to board _Seaswind_ in his father's stead, but neither had come to pass; his brother had become some knowledge-hungry craven, and his father... his father was dead.

Anger swelled up in Alidor sudden as a storm. The soft crinkling of paper as Lucas turned page to page only served to magnify the feeling. "Why?" he felt like yelling at his brother, "why do you forsake your duties as a Seaven?"

Instead he stood there, his sword hanging in its sheath at his hip. Somewhere deep within himself he knew Lucas would never hold his own, that the younger Seaven would always favor words over swords. He also knew that his brother would have some quip ready to answer his question, perhaps another shot at Alidor's own incompetence.

But his kingdom came first, it seemed. Alidor had scarce found time to pay the blue-cloaked guards that patrolled Seahaven day and night. The days seemed to blur together until he no longer knew how long it had been since Father perished. em style="box-sizing: border-box;"It cannot have been more than two moons, he told himself. But even then, he wasn't sure.

"Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?" Lucas had picked up the mug of ale, and was taking tentative sips. _He expects me to show myself out,_ the Lord of Seahaven realized. The tacit slight set his skin to bristling. Croconaw pushed himself up, jaws clacking. The beast stood only half as tall as the stacked books, yet cast a long dark shadow along the carpet.

"I have naught to say," said Alidor. "Only... I'd like to see you at tomorrow's drills. If even for a moment." His brother blinked, then turned his gaze back to eThe Innermost Workings of the Battlefield, whichever volume he had said it was. Alidor left him to his studies, hoping there was a yes behind those deep blue eyes of his.

Evening saw Alidor in his solar, resting in a stout armchair with Feraligatr sleeping by the doors leading out to a porch overlooking the palace's water garden. A soft breeze caught them, sending shudders through the oak. Feraligatr grunted at the sudden cold. Alidor Seaven watched in silence. He knew his Feraligatr had never been fond of the cold. Even as a Totodile, he favored bathing in the sulfur springs.

Alidor couldn't count the times that preference had saved him from having to attend drowning ceremonies with his lord father. _If you have a Pokemon who can't stand cool ocean water, who can question your decision to stray from it?_

Certain people were connected to their partners spiritually, if the tales were to be believed, sharing thoughts, emotions, and interests. Some smallfolk went as far as to say those individuals shared skins with their Pokemon.A queer thought, but just that. Still, Alidor wondered...

It was well past evenfall when a knock sounded someone's arrival at his door. _Lucas_ , was his first thought, but when he bid them in, his younger brother did not stand before him. Instead it was a scruffy man older than himself, draped in the colors of Seahaven. "Brayden," Alidor began, recognizing the tenebrous look his squire oft wore.

"Sire." There was no courtesy in his bow.

"I am a lord now, let me remind you," said Alidor. There was no point in correcting the Willim lad, he knew, but firmness of command was a glass he would have to drink from now and again. _I am a lord now._

Brayden grit his teeth. "M'lord," he said, taking care to overpronounce each syllable. "I have returned with your mount, and something else as well."

"I would see this 'something'," said Alidor. "Was it so large that you could not bring it in here?"

Feraligatr's eyes had snapped open. The beast was was pushing himself up in a half-conscious reverie, slamming the doors behind him shut with his tail. Brayden flinched. "No," he admitted. "I didn't want the bastard to bleed out before I made it up the stairs."

 _Bleed out?_ "Fetch the potions maester, Feral," he said to Feraligatr. The Pokemon gave a lethargic snort before making his way to the door Brayden had entered through. He shut it with his tail when he was through, as was his wont, and Alidor could hear him padding down the hall to Freslen's quartering. _It seems everyone but The Lord of Seahaven knows what's happening_ , he reflected, before saying, "Take me to it. Preferably _before_ it's bled out."

Brayden led him through the castle's broad hallways for what seemed like hours, going up and down staircases Alidor hadn't known existed. At the end of one of them, they found a tall redwood door. Carved in it's face was the crown of a Magikarp, resplendent even on lackluster wood. Golden beadings dribbled down it like melted candlewax, and a fish-headed doorhandle glared up at them.

"It's the back entrance to the stables," Brayden explained, before Alidor could question him. "I'd rather not draw undue suspicion by entering through the yard."

Alidor nodded to his squire as he pulled the door inward. _A prudent move, to be sure, but was it necessary? I am the Lord of Seahaven, what have I to fear of my subjects?_

"Over here," Brayden said when the two reached at bale of hay at the far end of the stable. At first, Alidor didn't see the creature the squire had described. But as Brayden grasped the silvery wire about the hay and pulled it aside, a bony head made itself visible in the poor light of the stable, half-draped by a wing white as winter.

 _A queer creature, but..._ Alidor knelt. Somehow he found it familiar. Had he seen this type of Pokemon before? I _f I have, it certainly wasn't one so malnourished._ The thing's bones jutted out beneath its skin in sharp mounds, and its eyes burned a dull red, clouded and unblinking. Alidor could see its ribs pulsing with each breath it took, however shallow they were. It was sombering to look on, when his own partner was in such good health.

"Will Freslen know where we are?" asked Brayden.

"Yes." What faith Alidor lacked in Seahaven's potions maester, Feral made up tenfold. "We may not have need of him, though. I see no blood spilled."

Brayden shifted his weight. "The light," he put forward.

"Or lack thereof," said Alidor, unsmiling. "Did you not think to bring a torch?"

"I..." Brayden paused when a soft knock sounded at the far side of the stable, followed by a low growl. He looked almost grateful at the disturbance, and went to let the visitors in. "Maester Freslen," came his greeting.

Alidor turned his head to see the bulbous Maester of Potions striding towards him, his roughspun robes swirling about his feet. Thankfully, he'd thought to bring a torch, and the light brought with it welcome relief.

"Where is the creature?" he asked, only sparing a moment to bow curtly to the young Lord of Seahaven. Alidor moved aside and the maester bustled past, clucking like some hen over the sorry state of the Pokemon.

"My squire said it was injured, but I see no blood," said Alidor Seaven. Freslen put two fingers to the creature's wing and drew them back slowly. In the torchlight, Alidor could see a slick liquid covering their tips. "There is the blood," the maester said. "I would ask your leave to stitch what wounds the poor thing has, and perhaps feed it a bit. From my own plate, to be sure." He licked his lip.

"Do what you will to staunch the flow of blood," Alidor permitted, "but I will see to rehabilitating it."

If there was any hesitation in the maester's eyes, it made its leave when Feral snapped his massive jaws. "It will be done," he mumbled, bowing. "I have brought a smatter of apothecary tools, yes..." He busied himself with wresting a pouch from the folds of his robe. When he pulled the string about its vair mouth, a few vials tumbled out into his palm. "Dreamwind will do nicely.. yes... and Citrus grounds for the pain..."

Alidor was about to leave Fresen to his work, but took a moment to wonder if it would be best to leave Brayden, too. He would be more suited to carry a Pokemon up to the potion master's quarters than the potion master himself, and it would do nicely to be free of his dismal attitude for a time. "You will assist Maester Fresen," Alidor bid his squire, before standing quietly and turning to leave.

I am the Lord of Seahaven, what have I to fear of my subjects?

Much and more, apparently.


	5. Lucas I

The dreams came, as they did each night, but when Lucas closed his eyes and saw the sea again, hesitance bloomed in his chest. He had dreamed this dream the night before, and the night before that.

His heart beat quickly, _tutututu_ , and he slapped the cool air with his striped wings, but he felt more boy than bird. _The connection is already fraying_ , Lucas realized, with a jolt that nearly sent him into a rocky arch jutting from the ocean, _he is fighting me, and I've only had him for a moment._

Adjusting his wings so he might catch the sea breeze, Lucas wound through three rocky fingers reaching up from the watery depths. He dove under a flock of Ducklett, his wings level with the surface of the ocean, his eyes watching for prey. Whenever he found this Wingull's body, open sea surrounded him, so it was impossible to know quite where he was. The structures jutting from the water looked familiar, however. _All the maps I've read, and not one helps me a lark._

The Wingull thrashed within him, trying to arrogate his body. _Get out,_ a voice that wasn't his screamed, _outoutoutoutout_. Lucas felt his gizzard contract and release as he rose on a vent of air. It was a strange feeling, but not much dissimilar from the feeling a stomach bug brought. _I must feed_ , his own voice said. The thought of fresh meat overtook him, memories that did not belong to him flooding his mind, and it was suddenly hard to keep his mind on flying. He ceased trying. The air stilled about him, jarred by the repose. And then it was pressing against his feathers with a smooth soft chill.

He dropped like a stone, his streamlined body slicing through air and spray and salt. The voice that was not his screeched at him, his stomach roiled, and water splashed him cold and hard in the face. He tucked his wings and swam, eyes closed against the salty ocean. There was no sound but for the riffling of an Elektrik through the blue. Soft waves caught his feathers, and he knew his prey was near.

His gizzard clenched again, and he breached, sucking in a breath. Blinking, he glimpsed a man-fish on the horizon, its sails billowing in the wind. They feed, too, he thought, when he saw a large net pulled from the depths. They were approaching him. He ducked below, and they were gone.

The Elektrik sensed him. The beat of its heart thread through the water, going at a crescendo. Its fear was palpable, an iron ball about its waist. It was not long before Lucas had it in his bill. He breached another time, beating his wings like the men beat their drums aboard their fish, boom boom boom. He circled, going higher and higher and higher with each pull of his wings, water falling like rain from his feathers.

The Elektrik went down his throat writhing when he leveled out ten meters above the sea, sending shivers of tension through him. Warmth spread through his chest. His first thought was that his prey had bitten him as it went down, but the pain did not feel so sharp as that.

He felt blood matted on his feathers, not realizing it was his until a second thrum sounded. Foreign feathers sprouted from his own, and pain took him as quickly and sharply as he had taken Elektrik. The Wingull within him was still harping, _ouuuuuuut,_ but it morphed into an undulating wail. The throbbing in his gizzard returned, and he blinked. His wings grew heavy, and it was then the Wingull knew he was scared. An iron ball, he thought, dropping. A wooden deck came up to kiss his side, though its lips were splintery and hard as they ran along his feathers.

"Ain't one of 'em," a gruff voice said, when he had stopped sliding. A man, Lucas knew. "I told you it weren't."

Something wet splattered in his eye, and he felt a boot at his side. The drums beat about him, instructing the fish to flail its fins about. His wings ached when he tried to lift them, and his head was a leaden ball. "Good meat, I say," the other man said, kneeling." Don't matter any if it was holdin' a scrap o' paper." The Wingull thrashed when a cold hand pressed into his side. "Feisty little bastard."

The first man chuckled. "Get that arrow out of it, and might be we'll down another before evenin'. I ain't had a whole Wingull in living memory."

Let me be, Lucas thought, before the arrow's shaft ripped through him. A Wingull screamed, though it was impossible to know exactly which one. Another thrum sounded, and all was silent.

Lucas woke with a twitch. It started in his arm, snaking through his veins like boiling oil, (line of editing)

Each bird viewed the world differently, but in each of those worlds Brandon Oceven was an infliction.

"Look, it's Noctowl!" Brandon declared as Lucas was on his way to the library. The boy lunged over to knock the book Lucas held to the floor.

Lucas reddened. He stooped to pick the book up, knowing that Brandon would kick him in the back of the knees and Pyter would keep laughing as he crumpled. Every day they did this, spitting japes and insults at the boy laying on the floor and his Pokemon until they tired of it and left.

Lucas was too craven to resist, and so was Ripple. His Croconaw had been born with no teeth to speak of, and his claws were dull to the point of being soft. If Lucas were to sic Ripple on them it would just make Brandon mad and spur Pyter to laugh harder. That's all Lucas ever saw the boy do, laugh as his brother harassed the Prince of Seahaven, laugh and laugh until his face was purple and the red pimple at the tip of his nose looked as though it was like to burst.

I'd burst it for him if I had the courage to punch his stupid face. But he didn't, and the pimple remained.

Brandon was worse. Besides having a foot and twenty pounds on Lucas, his Pokemon was just as nasty as he was. The Weavile was never at his side, but on more than one occasion Lucas had spotted the creature out of the corner of his eye, claws drawn and eyes shining. The first time he'd actually seen it was in the library, curled up in his armchair with The Book of Stark Seas between its teeth. That was my favorite one, thought Lucas sadly. He'd cried for a fortnight over that, mourning the loss of Nellin Stark's written exploits.

"Let's go, the bird won't squawk for us," came Brandon's voice, low and commanding. He was only two years older than his brother, five-and-ten on his last name day, but Pyter never failed to comply to his orders.

"Dumb Owl," the younger Oceven said, coughing out a laugh. "You can't even fly away. You're useless, you and your books."

We'll see who's useless when I'm the Lord of Seahaven. _I'll send you back to your lord father with apples in your mouths, and make him pay for the fruit_. Lucas smiled at the ground. _Or better yet, I'll make you wards to Olesten Stir._ _He won't tolerate your ill manners._

The Lord of Wavestir didn't tolerate much, if the whisperings of the maids in the library could be believed. He was a man of short stature and shorter temper, with a beard trimmed neatly in the shape of a rolling wave. Lucas had heard it said that his eyes were as blue as the salt pearls his city was renowned for. He offered two men to the waves each morn, and two more when dusk set in if the day's events had been to his disfavor. He'd set Pyter and Brandon straight, Lucas knew, or drown them if he deemed the boys too noisy. They'll squawk for him, I know they will.

But then he remembered his brother. Lucas wouldn't be able to do anything but ignore the japes of the Ocevens until Alidor died. Dread washed over him. I won't be the Lord of Seahaven for decades. And if his brother were to sire a son, that date could change to never.

He pushed himself up with a sigh, grabbing his book as he stood. Lucas had no reason to hate Alidor; he was as good a brother as anyone was like to get, and a respectable leader besides. I could just ask him to banish those two, and he'd probably do it, the Prince of Seahaven thought. But when he looked at Croconaw, the lie became dust in his throat. Alidor Seaven was too honorable to send the wards his father had accepted away, especially when he knew their importance.

For if Olesten Stir was a rolling wave, Symine Oceven was a tsunami. Lucas had only seen the man once in the Grand Hall, on the eve he came to assure his sons hadn't been killed under the care of Sly Seaven (though he claimed, quite heatedly, he'd visited to sup with the Lord of Seahaven).

He looked strikingly similar to Brandon, a big red-faced brute with a coarse mane of black hair that framed his face. "Brother," he greeted Lucas's father, "it's been too long. Where are my boys?" To answer his call, Brandon's Weavile had sprung from the eaves and landed softly on clawed feet, sending a dull scrape through the hall. Its owner had then burst through the door at the far end of the room, trailed by Pyter. Both wore silkspun breeches tucked into belts at the hem of their studded jerkins. At their breasts was the palm of Oceven, bending low on a blue-green field.

"Why do you call him brother?" asked Brandon when he reached his father's side. "He is bastard-born, no more part of the Trio than that bitch in Crestgard."

Symine Oceven had laughed, a booming roar that echoed through the hall, and clapped his son on the back. "That's my boy," he'd declared. "It is well-known that our Lord of Seahaven is only a lord by his marriage to my Lysane. May the poor lass rest in peace."

"We are all saddened by my lady's untimely death, I am sure, but it is my duty as her lord husband to carry the legacy she left behind. I did that by taking my place as the third pillar that supports the Shoreline Empire," Sly replied with strained courtesy. "I'm sure you understand, Brother."

Lucas glanced at Alidor. His elder had the good mind to bring a helm that covered his face so Lord Oceven could not see his distaste. He held his sword by its leather-gripped hilt. Feraligatr was looking at the sapphire pommel with the curiosity of a babe. Lucas's own Pokémon had scurried underneath the long dining table when Weavile had lighted. I'm surprised I didn't, too.

"Without us, you crumble," recited Symine Oceven, Seahaven's words sounding strange in his speak. "But we'll always stop the waves." He gestured to Brandon's standard. "I've wanted to change our house words for years, make them something more suiting of our palm. Perhaps, we'll always quell the storm. Do you like that, Brandon?"

The boy nodded. "Very much so, Father. It reminds me of how you destroy the enemies you face in battle and silence those who speak against our House." Pyter mumbled an agreement, stumbling over his words.

And get half your men killed in the process, Lucas thought. The only reason you've survived so long is the lines of soldiers that run to their deaths before you. The battle's over before you even have to lift a finger, let alone a sword. That, and his monster of a Pokémon. Brandon's Weavile was a kitten compared to his father's Beartic, whose size prevented him from fitting through the hall's door and making an appearance. That much Lucas was thankful for.

The dinner, not so much. Even after they'd all taken seats around the table (Lucas spaced far from Weavile as he could be), Lord Oceaven and his firstborn son jested about the comforts Sly had offered them. "He's a mewling babe, that he is, always wanting to win his peoples' favor. It'll be the death of him."

Lucas remembered the creases that formed on his father's brow as the conversation grew more and more derisive, until finally he stood and walked from the hall. After a jape about making water, the target of the Oceaven's japes quickly became Alidor, and though he stomached them well enough, Lucas could feel contempt emanating from behind the thick helm his brother wore.

The smoked Feebas on Sly's plate remained untouched until later that night, when Lucas brought it to his chambers. His father accepted it graciously enough, and when Lucas sat on the trunk by the foot of his bed, Sly made no protest. Instead he dipped the point of his Wingull-feather quill into the pot of ink at the top corner of his desk and continued his writing. His strokes were fast and jagged, angry cuts on the parchment.

"Father," said Lucas. Lord Oceven has left. He sends you his best wishes."

"I have no want of that man's good wishes, no more than I have want of his whelps. Brandon is obstinate enough without his lout of a father here to encourage him." He slashed at the paper with his quill, lips trembling. "He calls me bastard-born to my face, knowing his name will be his saving grace. While that may be the case this instance..." Lucas saw his father shake his head softly, sadly. "It is a hard lesson outlaws teach boys like him, shrewd and arrogant." He rested the quill beside his parchment. "But it is a lesson not easily interred, I'll grant you that."

Lucas could only stare at his father, wondering. And when Sly took up his quill to continue scratching at his parchment, Lucas left. He didn't remember getting to his own chamber that night, but he must have, for the next morning he found it was his pillow wet with tears and not the trunk he'd been sitting on.

Words cut Sly Seaven deeper than swords, Lucas saw. While Alidor could bear a thick helm to block the Oceven's bitterly cruel japes, the Lord of Seahaven did not have that amenity. He could only hide his anger away when Brandon flung his sharp-edged words at him. I know he wants to kill them. I know he does.

He'd even thought about doing it himself. A strategically-placed Ice Beam would serve his purpose well, if it could be believed Brandon was clumsy enough to slip over the side of the Tidal Cliffs. Lucas soon disposed of that plan, however. It was midsummer, who would have believed me if I said the elder ward of Seahaven had slipped on a tract of ice? And Ripple didn't even know Ice Beam.

His steps echoed through the hall, soft, evenly-paced. He knew he'd reach the library soon. His palms stung where they'd scraped against the floor, but he could only bite his lip and press onward. Heknows Ice Beam now, though. It could work... He'd reached the library when the err of the thought reached him. No, I wouldn't set myself up like that. There are too many variables. He slipped the book up into the nook of his arm and placed a hand on the oaken door he'd passed through so many times before. But before he pushed it open, Lucas turned on his heel and strode down the hall, out to the water gardens. He had to try again. Because if Lucas Seaven was anything, he was not easily deterred.

The afternoon sun stroked his arms almost nervously as he made his way down a white sandstone pathway flanked on either side by saltwater ponds. Two maesters were talking by the carved likeness of the Guardian at the center of the garden. As Lucas drew near, he found they were speaking of poisons. Feigning interest in their conversation, the boy was delighted to find the old men more than happy to disclose information to their Prince. The two soon fell into a debate over the merit of liquid Sharpspell when used to part a man from his worldly pains, and Lucas found it more than simple to slip off into the castle unnoticed.

Gold, Lucas found, could get a boy far. Almost so far as knowledge could. Both proved useful in his quest for a poison potent enough to kill Brandon. A quick scan of Seahaven's library turned up an odd few tomes, two of which Lucas ended up taking. One was blue, the other red, and in silver print their titles were emblazoned: _An Anthology of Maester's Reports and Botanical Neore, Vol. II: Venomous Flora._

Lucas judged the seaside markets by the Pier of Memory would be the most auspicious place to start his search. He remembered, however faintly so, peering out from behind the seasilk curtain of his family's litter at the common folk when he was a child. High above them, Lucas had seen foreign men walking about with swaying gaits that could only mean they were drunk or had snapped up enough silver selling their wares to become so. Further down fishermen cried their catch, but as the Seaven litter passed, their shouts of "One Dile a side, fillet your own Magikarp here!" quickly turned to "Fresh Feebass, two fish a Croc!" Lucas still remembered the slimy taste repulse had left as it crawled up his throat. The thought of Magikarp as food had never crossed the boy's mind before then; it had been decreed that the sigil of House Seaven was a sacred fish following the War

Lucas fell into his mother's skirts in his haste to turn from the scene. "Mother," he wailed, bunching a bit of her rayon dress in his fist, "eating Magikarp is a crime."

"It is," Lady Meadow consoled, wrapping a soft hand

something about the crass nature of the place

He found Zephyr after drifting past what seemed like hundreds of queer men with queerer wares: at one stand Snivy tails hung from a pinstriped eave upon a hooked string, shriveling in the sun like green prunes; on another were crude necklaces of jaded sea glass. Lucas thought them quite nice, and he wandered closer to the trestle desk they were laid on, thrice nearly losing his feet in the swirl of people bustling about him in some odd race.

The vendor greeted him in a tongue he didn't recognize, but seemed genial enough, so Lucas stammered out something he thought sounded like a pleasantry and set about scanning the ornate pieces of jewelry. He didn't presume to touch them once he caught sight of the curved blade at the vendor's lithe thigh.

bit the coin Lucas gave him and found it to be authentic, he smiled, showing pointed teeth and a forked tongue. "A silver Croc true and true. How'd a little whelp like yourself get one of these?" All Lucas did was open his mouth and gape at the man, at his purple skin and scaled arms. He's half a serpent. Zephyr's smile fleeted, as though reading the Prince's thoughts, and he slipped the coin away into the folds of his cloak without so much as a word.

He retreated into the seasilk walls of his tall tent a moment later, and for a while Lucas thought he would never come back out. Why did I come here? he asked himself. He knows it's me. He's going to ransom me to Alidor for a thousand more Crocs. He tugged at the dagged sleeve of his cloak and shook the sandy bangs from his eyes. I have the eyes of a Seaven. Everyone knows, they just haven't let me in on it yet.

But when the merchant finally emerged from his tent, he held in his calloused hands a string of Drapinox pearls. Leaning in close to Lucas, the man dropped them into his palm and smiled again, flicking his forked tongue at the boy just to see him flinch.

And later, when dusk had settled over Seahaven Keep and the halls were cast in silence, Lucas crept to the room where he knew Brandon slept. He'd changed out of the hooded cloak he wore to market in favor of a dark jerkin and shorts. He clenched a single Drapinox pearl in his fist. Am I really doing this?

Ripple clacked his jaws softly. "Shh," Lucas told him. His Pokemon had the decency to look abashed, but the prince could hardly blame him. He felt like shivering and crying at the same time, because if something happened, if someone were to spot him..

A plank underfoot almost gave him away when it creaked, and Lucas felt his heart lurch upward. It was just a creak. Nobdoy could have possibly heard it. So he took his next step as carefully as he could. He nearly choked on his own breath and tripped over Ripple's tail more times than he wanted to admit, but his feet somehow got him to the door.

It was open slightly, a slit of dull light coming from within. He's in there. Lucas put a hand on the wood. _What if he's awake? Or it's just a handmaid, cleaning his sheets? What will I do then?_

Lucas leaned into the door a bit too heavily. It whimpered, swung inward, and threw him into the room. _Mother of the Guardian, save me now_ , he thought, closing his fist around the pearl. _Give Brandon a merciful hand_. When he looked up, though, Brandon Oceven did not loom over him, nor did one of his maids. A shudder of relief blew over Lucas when he saw the boy in his bed, snoring softly. _Or rather, give him a deep sleep._

But then the sound of steel on steel hit his ears, almost melodic. A breath caught in Lucas's throat. Brandon's Weavile looked like a manifestation of death itself, risen from its space on Brandon's bed to greet the intruder. It was under the covers, Lucas realized.

A torch burned on the wall, but suddenly the room was cold. Cold as death. Lucas was shaking. _What was I thinking?_ His palms had grown clammy, and he could feel the poison biting at the cuts on his palm. I've activated it," whispered Lucas Seaven, terrified of what that might mean.

Weavile hopped from the bed on which his partner lay sound asleep. It's eyes spoke venom, it's claws murder. Brandon stirred when it hissed, and Lucas saw the corners of his lips curl into a weak smile. Even in the void of sleep, he had a contemptuous look about him, as though he could see the fear in Lucas's eyes.

 _I'm going to die._ Lucas hadn't intended on actually carry through with poisoning Brandon, the craven he was, but zeal did things to him. It made me brave. _Almost like Nellin._ A tear that he hadn't felt welling slipped from his eye.

Then Weavile was upon him, thrusting a taloned fist at his face. Lucas opened his mouth to scream and then his reflexes kicked in; his hand flew to cover his eyes, stinging where the Drapion venom had pierced skin.

He shut his eyes, and for a moment felt at peace. _I'm in the library_ , he realized, reading the _Peril of the 'Mon_. That was my second favorite book. He allowed himself a sigh, and the sudden pain felt more like ice than anything else.

He opened his eyes to blood. It was trickling down from a cut above his wrist, sticky and warm like the tears wetting his face. _So this is how it ends_. A dry laugh escaped him when he realized Brandon hadn't stirred. _At least I didn't wake him._

He waited for Weavile to deliver the blow that would end his life for hours, years, but when it didn't come, he sat up. His thoughts were muddled, to say the least. _Am I dead?_ But he was still in Brandon's room, sitting next to a birch wood table holding a candle that had been snuffed out. He could see cracks snaking through the sandstone walls like the sunken veins of some giant, and a roughspun carpet by his feet. But Brandon's Pokemon was nowhere to be seen. _I must be._

At least Lucas did, until he stood. Then it was he saw Weavile's red-feathered crest and slate body thrashing about on the palm-fiber carpet. His hand throbbed, and as he tried to shake away the pain, the realization that a certain pearl was missing caught him. _Oh gods above, I didn't mean for his Pokemon to eat it,_ _not Weavile_. All he could do was stare at the Pokemon writhing and think, _I did this. If it hadn't been Weavile, it would have been Brandon._ _What was I thinking?_

And all of a sudden, he had no idea. All thoughts of the pain in his hand deserted him. Lucas watched until the Pokemon's body stilled, then gasped back a sob and fled the room. _I killed it._

He fled before he could see Brandon roll off his bed, hand clutching at a throat swelled with poison.


	6. Z II

The towerhouse Ser Rondy led Z to was larger than any boy of his birth deserved.

When he laid eyes on its sleek stone walls and crimson roof from across the bailey Z saw the home of a wealthy man, or perhaps the right hand of a King; the ornamented structure jutting up from the ground like some candle was certainly not the place for a louse from the underbelly of Luma Bay. The boy stared at it for moment, wistful, but his gaze dropped to the floor when shame overtook him. _I don't deserve this. Any of it._

Z still wondered why Ron had stayed Ylle's hand back at the docks. It would have been less trying for the knight to ride past, to turn a blind eye to the struggles of common folk. Thievery ran rampant in places like Luma Bay. Punishment to those who stole was delivered deftly and more often than not by the person they had tried to pilfer from; there wasn't a purpose in employing men to patrol, for in Luma Bay there was already a rudimentary system of law and order in place. It was well within Ser Ronly's rights to leave that system be, so his intervention was quite the puzzle.

Z's heart flitted back and forth in restless beats. Perhaps his Pokemon had come to him, just in a different manifestation. He cast a glance at Ron, the tall, blackheaded knight clad in sleek mail with an orange cloak about his shoulders. He did look somewhat like the bird from Z's dreams, down to his clear eyes and dark skin. Even his sigil, a Charizard slashed with black, spewed yellow flame all over the patch at his collar, giving him the look of Z's Pokemon. Well, he isn't a bird. Z chuckled at the thought, or perhaps the Chalkberry Potion's side effects were finally rearing their head. He did feel a touch queasy. It's simply the altitude tying my stomach up, he told himself.

Ser Rondy flicked a sideways glance at the boy, humored. "Are you so surprised by the Princess's gift?" They passed under a high arched door and stone turned to grass underfoot. "You'll find that our Lady of Crestgard is quite... generous."

They had reached the palace gardens by then, just a square away from Z's tower. Trees sprang up around them, green-leaved and verdant, and Z glimpsed strange oblong fruit on each branch. They were crimson on one side and orange on the other, as though someone had begun painting them one color and decided they favored another halfway through. What was queer about them, though, was that the orange side was splotched with crimson and the crimson, orange.

"It's simply disbelief." A shiver of pain went through Z's back where the stitches were, so his next question was strained. "Will I be able to meet her sometime?" He cracked a nervous smile, hoping Ser Rondy wouldn't interpret his tone wrongly.

The knight's expression tightened. "I'm sure my lady would love that," he said after a moment, taking a glance at the floor. When he looked back at Z, all the scrutiny in his brown eyes had departed.

Soon after the ground returned to stone, and the two reached a door, tall and parted by three long iron bars laid crosswise along the oak. Peering up, Z glimpsed the upper eaves of his towerhouse glimmering crimson in the afternoon sun. He thought he saw a Pokemon beating its way through the blue sky overhead, but Ser Rondy opened the tower's door and stepped through before the boy could think to ask. But Z held back for a moment to stare at the orange-winged creature, thinking.

At last he chose to join Ser Rondy, walking ponderously past wood drawers and silver chests pressed into clefts in the entry hall's reflective marble walling. After what seemed like a hundred chests were behind him, Z passed under an arched doorway and into a room larger than any he had seen before. A vista of stained glass on its far wall spilt colorful whorls of yellow and orange and blue onto the sleek floor. Depicted on the glass were a trio of Pokemon, each with a body of tempered Firestone and eyes of Midol that shone darkly when sunlight made the mistake of passing them. Which Pokemon are these? Zthought, wondering over the smallest piece of glass, a single (though undoubtedly large) Firestone pounded thin as a leaf of parchment. The dark stones that served as the Pokemon's eyes held a life to them Z could not find in the others. It seems so real.A ripple stirred the air, and Z sensed the faintest warmth brush his cheek. He shivered despite the heat.

But something drew the boy under the doorway and past a grand staircase to the window. Z felt much like a 'karp being pulled up from the depths by a fisherman: all the willing in the world proved futile when his feet would not turn, when his fingers refused to remain by his side and went up to brush the smallest Midol shard. Another vent of warmth hit him, and again Z saw the gems gleam, lifelike.

"Z." Ron's austere voice shook through the room, replacing warm with cold in an instant. Z turned, saw the knight's red cloak, smiled. Ron returned a wan smirk. "You've found the Glass Pyre," he said.

"So I have." Z's hand slipped from the dark stone back into the folds of the cloak M'ade had given him. "Which Pokemon are they?"

"The royal family's." Ron maintained a watchful eye on the smallest bit of glass. When Z inspected the knight closer, he barely made out a pensive glisten of sorrow in his eyes. But it was there.

imbued with zestol. The waxy orange substance was extracted from the leaves of Citrus Berry bushes; Z had only seen the plants resting by merchant's stalls in small pots; he'd never heard of them growing wild in Neore, and he didn't know anything of whence region they came.

Craning his neck, Z's eyes followed two banisters that flowed up to the tower's second floor in a spiraling stone dance. With the zestol in them, it looked as though they were made of a Charizard's breath turned half to stone. _The workmanship is beautiful_ , Z thought, running a hand up the bannister as far as he could manage and urging his fingertips to strain further still. _Surely this tower was meant for a king._

The window all but fled his thoughts when Z saw the armor stands lined up against the left hand side of the stair. He nearly ran into an empty one, so thin they were, and had to sidestep another. Are they all bare?

Finally he glimpsed a chinked helmet resting on the farthest one down. As he became accustomed to the sequential nature of the wood stands, Z began to pick out pieces of boiled leather resting on the frames. "What are those for?" he asked Ron, pointing to an odd bit of rusted armor that clanked to the floor when he knocked the stand it had been clinging to. "And that?" Now he spoke of a cracked wooden shortsword lying beside a sheath in an even sorrier state than it.

Ron walked over to the armor stand closest to himself and relieved it of a mail hauberk. The left shoulderpiece was missing, rusted at the juncture where chestplate and shoulder connected. The other side was somberly surviving its brother. "Not much. They're bits of armor we've retired, ones in too poor a condition to be useful in battle and too large to be made into playthings for the children of the court." He met eyes with Z. "This tower was used as a hospice when Jakien Pyrox besieged Crestgard, did you know that?" Running an umber-skinned finger along the missing armpiece, the knight looked almost bemused. "Ma'de will tell you as much, if you have the ear to hear it. He is a gifted maester, the most apt in Neore... but he has seen much. Even a maester with twice his skill would shudder at the prospect of a thousand broken men, and a thousand broken men is what Pyroar's spawn brought us."

Ron set the hauberk lightly back in its place, turning an armor stand for a moment into a gallant knight. Z could just see himself in its place, a headstrong lad with fulgent eyes and a sense of pride well-inflated. The more he gazed at it, though, the more Z realized how broken the stick-knight looked missing a shoulder. And again he saw himself in the armor, only this time his knees buckled under its weight, and his eyes showed their uncertainty with shimmering clarity. Truth be told, Z saw a boy hiding behind the thick plate.

He'd never wielded more steel than a blunted dagger. And even that's gone now. He walked away from the thought and over to a dusty black sheath hanging from one of the staircase's carved bannisters. Its point was long enough to scrape the floor, and at the sheath's top a pommel inlaid with shards of emerald peeked out at Z. "Ron, what's this?" the boy asked, reaching up to grasp the sheath's strap. His fingertips barely brushed the stark white leather. For a moment Z wished he were taller.

And then Ser Rondy was behind him, taking hold of the strap and lifting the sheath as though it weighed no more than a Joltik. He gazed at the indents on the black leather, a furrow growing deep in his brow. He drew the sword within and rested it on his palm to inspect the lustrous blade up and down. "Lordraiser," the knight said. "I thought you to be lost."

Z hadn't a clue who Ron was addressing. He glanced about at the rows on rows of stick-knights standing their forlorn sentry, and again at Ser Rondy. Certainly the knight knew wood had no mouth to speak with. So Z spoke for it. "Is that the sword your father made?"

"Aye, Axel Seaven's own." The knight walked past Z and to to the stained glass window behind the staircase. Z trailed him, putting a tentative arm around an armor stand when he drew close to the glass as he was comfortable. Ron glanced at him, took a sigh, and continued: "The Chester trade is visible in its working from point to pommel if you care to look close enough." He paused, turning the blade over to let Z glimpse the jeweled pommel. "My father only ever used the stone of his homeland in his swords, emeralds opaque in the dark and visible through and through in light."

It was true, Z saw. When Lordraiser caught the sunlight filtering in orange shafts through the stained window, the polished shards pressed into its hilt seemed to fade to nothing. The boy suddenly felt ashamed for touching even its sheath. He could never hope to amount to the prowess of the king who wielded Lordraiser, nor would any wish he made be worth as much as the emeralds laid in it. Iwill always be lowborn, no matter the castle they put me in, Z reminded himself.

There was a clean metallic sound as Ron slid Lordraiser back into its sheath. "I can't imagine why it would be here at Crestgard and not Seahaven, though. It belongs there, with the family whose hands gave it its first taste of blood."

"It should go to you," Z put in. "Your family gave it the keen edge to draw that blood."

Ser Ronly stared at him a beat. "Clever lad," he said, smiling. The smile fleeted after a moment, though, and the knight returned to inspecting the mars in the sheath's face with a tight lip.

 _He still hesitates._ "Surely you can't think to send your father's sword to the Seavens."

"As now, every Seaven in Neore thinks it to be two leagues beneath the sea resting with Axel." His fingers drew a slow drum on the white leather. "If we were to send it... to say it were recovered during a deep-sea raid of Axel's Armor - that was his ship's name, if I'm correct - we stand to indemnify our relations with the Seavens."

"Are you at war with them?"

"Not as yet. There is tension between Crestgard and Seahaven, that I will not deny, but a gift such as Lordraiser will no doubt ameliorate it."

"And if it doesn't? You may find yourself at odds with Lordraiser in some skirmish, and what will your gift do then?"

"You make a valid point." A modest smile crossed Ron's face. "You speak well for a boy of your age, Z. I haven't had more rousing a conversation since the time I spoke with the Lord of Trihelm, and he was thrice your age at least." The soft tapping of his fingers tapered. "I suspect you're more educated than you let on."

A moment passed in which Z tried to squirm from the trap Ser Ron had caught him in. So my speech betrays me. "The septons taught me to speak properly," he finally said. "I was brought up in a home for orphans. At the Sept by the Bay. The septons there taught me my letters and the colloquial form of Basaltongue."

Known commonly as Basal, the home language of Neore was a dialect cobbled from the broken remains of the Kantonian Empire and their provinces. Z found it simple enough to speak, though he'd picked the larger words up only because of his role as a scribe in the Sept's rookery. He accredited his placement to the blackened cloak he came to the septons in; when it was draped about his shoulders he looked akin to the birds who bore the letters he penned.

The septons would abide no dark cloth in their holy hall, but when Z refused to don roughspun as per their fashion, they were contented to let the boy scratch out letters in the dark of the rookery. Dark cloth hides dark hearts, Z remembered them say, upset he no longer had the cloak. Ylle had stripped him of it to bare his back for her lash - he hadn't even thought of it until then - but now that he did, grief for the loss hit him.

"I see." Ron mused over the revelation as one might muse over a scroll. "The Great Sept is home to orphans, yes... and a great deal of corruption, that I've descried on my sentries." He lay a meditative eye on Z. "And that's what brought you to steal."

"No," Z started, before withering under the knight's glare. "I stole because I had to."

Ron gave a low grunt. "I thought so," he said, not unkindly. "The septons had nothing to feed you with, and if they did, it was stolen by the other orphans."

Z mumbled an accordance he was certain Ron couldn't hear; it was so quiet even he didn't hear himself. The knight came around to clap a hand on his shoulder, softly so as not to disturb the wounds Ylle's whip had left. "You needn't worry yourself over such things any longer," he assured Z. "Her Ladyship has appointed me to guard your person and Ma'de to keep you well. She's given you free roam of the castle, and permission to eat what you will from the kitchens and make your quarterings in this tower."

But why? Z wanted to ask. What does your Lady owe me? Instead he mumbled, "Thank you," and ducked away from Ron's touch. He slipped by the knight, past the stands and to the stair. Grasping the carved bannister, he started up the staircase. He couldn't cry before Ser Rondy, not after the knight had commended him for his maturity. It was just too much for him to take; the Lady had given him more than he'd ever had in all his life, and the queasy feeling in his stomach had returned in full force when Ron reminded him of it. It seemed everyone knew what Z's place was in the puzzle of Crestgard was, everyone but him.

Z knew Ser Ron was following him when he heard his boots ringing against the lacquered wood steps, and surely enough, the knight caught him two spirals up as the stair flattened into another floor. "Your back," he reminded Z.

What about it? the boythought. He staggered up the last step, braced himself against the curling end of the bannister. His wounds had begun to ache sometime during the ascent, and now pain swirled about him in a sharp pulsing rhythm that made it feel as though the gods had mistaken his back for a drum. I'm well enough to climb. Z felt the lie, though; his legs were quickly failing him, and his back was afire. He gripped the bannister like a man lost at sea grips a driftwood plank. The room was a swirl of color about him, commingling greys and whites broken only by the fiery red of Ser Rondy's cloak.

Somehow the knight wrenched Z from the bannister and got him down onto a bench. "Stay here," he commanded. A thousand unsaid words shone in his dark eyes, but when Ser Rondy turned and started down the stairs, each faded in turn.

 _Don't leave me_ , Z might have cried to the knight who'd shown him too much kindness already, _I don't belong in this place._ But like his legs his sight was quickly failing, and gods knew his breaths were shallow enough as it was.

Through strained breaths Z thought of Rosin Marke, his only friend in the Sept's rookery. At least Z imagined the fleshy man to be his friend; he'd called the boy Louse in his gruff voice and laughed heartily when Z tried to tell him his true name was only a letter long. The man was old, though, his skin spotty as his eyesight, and he was wont to mistake Z for a Murkrow when the boy was cowled and an Espeon when he wasn't. That makes for dour times when a man hates both, Z thought, a faint smile threatening the corners of his lips.

Admitting a whistling sigh through his teeth, the boy sunk lower into his seat on the bench. As he fell into a sleep fraught with pain, the smile of memory ever so softly parted his lips.

Had Rosin been present, he'd have sworn the boy looked like a different Pokemon entirely.


	7. Lunette II

She looked up when a vast cloud engulfed the others. She became acutely aware, as she stood there gazing at the fore of the sept, that the other robed septas had dispersed. Where they could have gone, however, Lunette did not pretend to know. If her intuition was indeed correct, and the sept were a thousand leagues in the sky, there would have been nowhere to go but down. _A treacherous drop, even for a dreaming girl._

The smallest of the septas turned to look at

her after a moment. She was a pitiful thing, pallid as an ivory moon, yet her shriveled stature somehow commanded the attention of the room. She raised a pale hand, only to have it swallowed by the bell-shaped sleeve of her robe. She remained dourly pointing at Lunette, silent as the Pokemon assembled behind her. _Me?_ Lunettelooked about to see if the septa could have been pointing to someone else. But the sept was bare save for her and the little woman. The septa seemed finger curled to beckon Lunette forth.

The girl took a step forward, not knowing what else to do.

A cloud passed over the glass again. As the darkness drew its blinds over the carpeted floor and across the rows of pews to either side of Lunette, the septa no longer looked crone, but Alysandre Ecklish, radiant even in the grey shroud of the dead. Her skin was pale as the coal statues behind her, unblemished but for a ring of red round her throat. "You have come," she said.

"Mother." Lunette felt strangely calm, somewhat like the untouched waters of an ocean. Of course, water was always calm before a storm hit.

She reached her hand out shakily, hoping, _hoping_...

...It passed through her mother's fingers, soft as a shadow. _This is a dream._ Still, Lunette let her hand linger in her mother's shadow.

"Lunette," said Alysandre Ecklish. Her

figure flickered, and Lunette became faintly aware that her feet were not touching the floor. "How you've grown."

 _Grown?_ "It's been three days since... since I saw you last," she reminded her mother with a leaden chest. Her heart beat in little jumps; _thud-thump, thud-thump._

"Has it been so long?" Alysandre cupped her daughter's hand in her own, though she could not hold it up. "It doesn't seem so."

It didn't seem so for Lunette, either. Perhaps she had been dreaming when Archer drove his pitchfork through her mother's neck. Perhaps this was reality, this great sept in the sky. "I know," was all she said, was all she could say. She hated the simplicity of it; two words were not nearly enough to paint her feelings out for Alysandre. _How many are, though?_ There was not a word that could aptly describe the hand on Lunette's heart. All she could do was let it squeeze, unable to remember the phrase that would make it all end.

Light pierced the window behind her, and the crimson in Alysandre's hair fell away to let grey come slinking in. "So you do." She seemed to look through Lunette, eyes pools of molten silver. _My mother did not have silver eyes._ Tears threatened Lunette, and when she opened her mouth to speak, they washed down her cheeks in rivulets soft as silk. Once they had started she could not stop them.

 _How am I brave?_ she asked herself. _I've chosen to sit in my tower and weep like some babe, what honor does that bring me?_ She looked up at her mother, a reminder of her weakness. _I don't know_ , she might have admitted, _I truly don't, please show me_. But the tears swallowed her words.

Shame took her. _Char hasn't shed a single tear._ "I've been overcome with grief," she admitted. "That stupid man Fletcher..."

"I have come to terms with his actions, and forgiven him for them." The crone gave Lunette a wan smile. "Though I would empty Crestgard's treasury a thousand times over to watch you grow, what has been done has been done. There is no rightness in condemning him for what is past."

Lunette sniffled and brushed a tear from her lips. Even her mother had forgiven Fletcher, and she was dead. _But this is my dream, in my mind. Can it be that I have pardoned Fletcher in some respects?_ The man was dead and cold, and Lunette was glad enough for that, but if she tried she could see his plight. _He was just trying to change things._ But he hadn't. Killing Alysandre wouldn't bring a Ponyta to every farmer in Crestgard, nor would it somehow spur Lunette to do so. _If there were a way, though..._ She brooded on that, silent.

"Do you see the statues before me?" Alysandre had walked on feet light as summer rain to the Guardian, and was stroking the ivory coal with the loving care of a mother. "I think of them as my children, like you. They are my comforts in this empty sept." Her hand drifted to The Keeper. "Such masterful work. Sometimes it seems as though they are living, breathing; Pokemon trapped in coal." The room went dark, and as color left Alysandre's robes it flooded back into her hair. "And their _eyes_. Look on them, my sweet."

Lunette did. Where she had shied from the Keeper before she now stood staring, wondering why she had been so craven. _It's just a statue_ , she told herself, straining her head up to look deeper into the bird's eyes, _it's just a statue and just a dream._ But how could she be seeing herself so manifestly if this was a dream? Lunette touched her braid and watched a strange red girl do the same. She blinked, and the shadow in the ruby did to, knowing her moves before she made them. And when Lunette turned and saw the door at the end of the nave swinging shut, she was certain the other girl did to. _But does she know it's her mother who's leaving?_

Lunette woke to the peal of the bells. _What time is it?_ She looked out the window, saw leaden skies, and judged midnight. Her quilted covers were spread unevenly over her, leaving the night air free to nip at the skin of her arms.

Char stirred in his own bed beside hers. The fire at his tail's end flickered, burning with an ardor that kept the little Pokemon alive. Lunette watched it to keep the pounding of her heart off her mind. _A dream. It was just a dream._ Then why did the sept in the sky seem more real than the room she was in now?

She sat up, auburn braid stroking the small of her back. Lunette could tell by the restlessness gnawing at her that trying to fall asleep was a fruitless hope at best, so she drew the covers to the side of her bed and stood. She had to go _somewhere_ , even if she didn't quite know where that somewhere was.

She ended up walking to the armory across the yard from her tower, a dark cloak thrown over the nightgown her handmaid Sypra had wrestled her into after her mother's death. "You need air," she had said to Lunette, her soft white hands loosening the dress's bodice, "that frock is like to suffocate you with all the crying you're doing, poor girl." Then she had smiled sadly, a gesture meant to be reassuring. It had only served to deepen Lunette's sorrow.

Her handmaid was a pretty little thing with big blue eyes and hair darker than Lunette's own. She often wondered why the girl chose to work for her; she would have done well in one of the more esteemed brothels of Crestgard, and with her charm she was bound to make more than whatever sum she earned as a handmaid. Lunette never said anything of it, though; her mother had selected the girl with her own hand, and she was a kind soul besides. Once Sypra had ascertained that Lunette's clothes would not suffocate her and left, Lunette had barred the door and crawled under her quilts to cry under a blanket of stitched dragons.

As she was going to knock on the door of the armory, a thought caught her. _Should I ask Cresten about the Guardian my mother spoke of?_ He'd probably think her a fool. _Perhaps I should go to Grrele_. The maestra would take kindly to questions asked about the Old Days; from what Lunette knew of the hunchbacked woman, she had studied them in her younger days, back when she was a student at the Obsidian Library in Centrevede. That was where all the maesters and maestras of Neore were trained and sworn, and only once they had weathered ten years of training were they given their silver-cowled robes and an unsocketed ring known simply as the Circle of Forbearance.

Lunette had learned as much on the day Grelle had come to Crestgard begging her mother for a gemstone to secure into the socket. An affirmation of her servitude to Crestgard, she had said, then and forevermore.

Alysandre Ecklish had smiled and drawn Cresten to her side, asked him to fetch a raw fire opal from his storeroom. When the armorer returned, Grrele had taken a shaky knee and been named the Grand Maestra of Crestgard.

Lunette was starting the walk to Grrele's tower when the muffled opening of a conversation from behind the thick oak door caught her attention. "A Wingull from Seahaven," she could make out, when she pressed her ear to the wood. "Lord Alidor has responded at long last, and he's willing to see the girl. We needs only..." She didn't catch the rest.

"Mayhaps, though Her Grace won't be pleased," came the gruff reply of Crestgard's Master Armorer. A thick flush crept up Lunette's neck. _Her Grace? Do they speak of me?_

"She is only a girl," said the other. "I urge you, move deftly. If Pylon Pyke is to find the legitimate will, you'll not be Crestgard's lord reagent for long."

"Who made it my wish to be reagent?" Cresten asked.

An accusatory silence ensued. "A purse of coins," replied the other man. "The promise of full-bellied children, perhaps. Who can say?"

She heard Cresten spit. "You and your bloody promises." Lunette's breath rolled wet and heavy off the thick door, worrying over the iron grip with soft hands. _Open it_ , they seemed to say, fumbling over the handle and passing through it with misty sorrow. _Demand them to tell you of whom they speak_. Lunette fidgeted, fighting her thoughts until Cresten continued. "You'd be wise to make that purse mate."

"And you'd be wise to know your worth."

"Is a kingdom truly worth less than a purse of gold? I hadn't heard. If so, I ought to buy another with the one you give me."

Another dour silence took them. "I thought you hated ruling," the other voice piped after a moment, scarcely a whisper.

"You're right. I wouldn't waste good coin on a kingdom," said Cresten. Lunette heard him chuckle gently. "The ruling's much too complicated, and I rather like my head where it is."

"And remain there it shall, so long as Pyke plays the pawn."

"Why is Pyke of such import? I could certainly... dismiss him."

"He is the only man suited to escort the girl to Seahaven should we choose to grant our little lord a look." The other voice sounded tired. _Pawns aren't always mindless_ , Lunette thought. _Some know their worth_.

"You're a man," said Cresten.

"And I have a boy with me. I can't leave him till he's at least met Her Grace."

Another silence rose, but Cresten would have none of it: "A boy?"

"Of my own blood," came the other voice. "He's to be your heir. I do know how you loathe your regency."

Cresten made a sputtering noise from behind his beard. "Ser, you can't mean to -"

"After Lord Alidor weds Her Ladyship, my son will slide right into the seat she's left bare."

"A usurper," Cresten whispered. "Alidor will not be pleased. Nor will the smallfolk."

Laughter broke out, a sudden bark that sent needlepricks up Lunette's arm. "Why, it isn't usurping if it's her brother moving to take the throne."

 _I don't have a brother,_ Lunette thought, gooseprickles rising beneath her nightgown. She shifted her head to the other side to better hear the rest of the conversation. Perhaps they weren't speaking of her. _It's some other lady, that's it._ So why did she still listen?

"This is preposterous," fumed Cresten. "You have a lordship already, why would you presume to snow your way into another? I never understood the way of war, but if it involves such trickery, I cannot abide it."

"You will abide it if you truly love dragons. The gold kind, not those beasts the Ecklishes possess."

"I..." Crested faltered, for a moment giving

Lunette the impression he'd been punched. _I shouldn't be listening to this_ , she had time to think, before he rejoined with, "Write back to Alidor saying we will discuss it with our lady." There was a scraping sound as a chair was pushed back. "I will speak with her on the morrow. I can be... how shall I put it... quite persuasive, I'm sure you understand." Another chair scratched against the floor, sounding almost crisp.

"I do. It is arranged, then. I shall see you and the Lady Lunette tomorrow. If you'll excuse me, I have an envoy to speak with, transportation to arrange. I am truly gracious for your support of my son."

"He will make a... wonderful lord," Cresten said. "I wish you the best of nights, ser."

Lunette backed from the door, thoroughly blanched. Her skin was warm, though the night was cold as it ever had been, and her heart was booming like the bells. All at once she turned and fled, her footfalls perfectly in time with the _boong boong boooong_ of a thousand metal hearts. As she ran, all the questions she'd kept safe for Grelle were forgotten, snuffed out against a heavy oak door. Her cloak caught on a mounted Chargoyle's stone tooth as she swept by it in a haste to reach her tower, and tore with a sharp _rippp._ But still she ran, until her thoughts were only of the fate that awaited her.

And as the bells declared the death of her mother time and time again, Lunette Ecklish huddled behind a barred door high in her tower, waiting for dawn to break.


End file.
